


The Alpha (The Beacon S1)

by KolettaDi



Series: The Beacon [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28379946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KolettaDi/pseuds/KolettaDi
Summary: Etta St James is the mischievous final to Scott and Stiles' trio of madness: though she knew life wouldn't be easy with them. When Scott runs off and gets himself bit by a werewolf, her life takes a supernatural turn with the rest of them.A rewrite of shameless self-insert into that old campy tv show. Includes witty-one liners and plot lines that actually explores the sadly forsaken potential of canon.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey/Original Female Character(s), Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/Original Female Character(s), The Pack (Teen Wolf)/Original Female Character(s), Theo Raeken/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Beacon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078574
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

_The Bite_

It was a cloudy night, and it was misty in the way typical horror movies preferred to start. That was normal, for Beacon Hills, though they hadn't yet managed the excitement of an axe murderer. Tucked in the northwest corner of California among the digger pines and about three hours from the coastline, it was a modestly peaceful town. Boring, actually.

So it _would_ be the night before the most important day of Scott’s life that he _would_ find a serial killer in the bushes.

He’d heard something outside the house—their house which was situated among the lonely foothills where the nearest neighbors were at least half a convenient mile away. And as his mom had taken a late shift at the hospital, he at least knew what those suspicious shufflings were _not_.

He grabbed the emergency bat tucked between the threadbare cushions of the old couch, and hesitated a second before opening the door.

Scott’s knuckles were turning white on the grip of the bat, his breathing tight within his already tight lungs, as he inched along the porch towards the railing. His eyes scanned the shadows quickly, his breath held, and then something swooped down from the side of the house.

Scott and the dark figure both screamed at the sight of each other--though the panic was short lived as they got each got a look at the other.

“ _Stiles_ , what the hell are you doing?” Scott demanded in a high voice.

Stiles, still upside down, blinked.

“You weren’t answering your phone.” Like his stalker-ish actions were completely, obviously justifiable. His eyes went to the raised bat in Scott’s hands, and widened. “ _Why_ do you have a bat?”

Scott scowled at him, heart still racing, and he flushed.

“I thought you were a predator.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows, glancing at the bat, again, but his mind was racing enough that he let it slide.

Either because he was caught in the trellis or because his information was too urgent to warrant the time it would take to climb down, Stiles continued conversing while hanging upside down.

“Okay, I know it’s late, but you’ve got to hear this: I saw my dad leave twenty minutes ago—dispatch called. They’re bringing in every officer from Beacon department, and even state police.”

“For what?”

Stile’s eyes lit up.

“Two joggers found a body in the woods.”

Just like that, Stiles displayed an uncharacteristic amount of physical agility and gripped the edge of the house, getting down easily enough to suggest that he’d likely done this more than once, before. Which, Scott knew, he had.

Scott and Stiles had grown up together, friends from the minute Scott had shared his chicken nuggets with Stiles when Stiles had been so disgusted with finding baby carrots in his lunch that he’d started throwing them at a fellow kindergartner’s hair.

Stiles had misunderstood, and began throwing the nuggets, then, too, but the pact had been sealed.

“A dead body?” Scott clarified uneasily, not quite sharing his buddy’s propensity for the macabre.

Never one to tolerate the practicality of clarifying the obvious, Stiles made a face.

“No, dumbass, a body of water. Yes, a dead body!”

He hopped over the peeling, white-painted railing that was damp in the evening fog, his dirty _Beatles_ tee implicating how much sneaking he’d been doing through the bushes.

“You mean like, murdered?

“Nobody knows, yet. Just that there was a girl, probably in her twenties.”

Scott still didn’t understand.

“Hold on, if they already found the body, then what are they looking for?”

Stiles couldn’t help the grin on his face from breaking through. To anyone else it might have looked demented.

“That’s the best part. They only found _half_.”

His voice rose in inappropriate glee. He smiled, content as a cat, and nodded.

“We’re going.”

Scott told himself that he was only going because he had to keep Stiles out of trouble.

He also knew that deep down, he was lying.

They climbed into Stiles’ faded blue jeep, parked a safe way down the road in case his mom had been home, the engine revving as if in response to Stiles’ excitement.

Only then did Scott realize that they were missing someone.

“Where’s Etta?”

“Asleep nice and early before first day of school, like the good little freak she is. Now get going!”

Etta was the third to their trio. She had been the kindergartner with a head full of carrots and chicken nuggets, and had sealed her friendship with them when she’d turned around and split her PB&J with them. Though not in the typical fashion: she’d split the sticky bread pieces and put on on Scott’s face, and one on Stiles’.

The three had been the first kindergartners in _Beacon Hills Elementary School_ to get detention, and it had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

“Did you tell her about this?”

“Hell, no! She would never swing for something this stupid.”

Scott thought he might have been giving her too much credit.

“So you do think it’s stupid. Why are we doing this, again?”

He hung on tight to the side of the jeep when Stiles took an especially tight turn on the moonlit mountain paths.

“ _Because_ , there is a _body_ out in the woods.”

Stiles threw out one hand and made a face that conveyed how that should be explanation enough. Scott decided not to question further: it was always practical to choose one's battles with Stiles. 

And it didn’t matter, now: not as Stiles sneaked the jeep over to the side of the road, and parked it in the dark, moon-casted shadows of the woods.

“We’re seriously doing this?”

Nothing could cast a pall on Stiles’ good mood, and he just pointed out,

“You’re the one always bitching that nothing ever happens in this town.”

Because he was right, Scott scowled.

“I was trying to get a good night’s sleep for practice, tomorrow.”

Stiles slammed the base of his palm against a silvery flashlight until it worked. _Vintage_ , he’d called it, and refused to get one that actually worked.

He forged ahead into the woods confidently, leaving Scott to catch up.

“Right, because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort.”

“No, because I AM playing this year. In fact, I’m going to make first line.”

Having decided such midsummer and told himself every day since, the words sounded only slightly doubtful by now.

Stiles, ever observant and rational, was more than happy to take that doubt and use it to crush Scott’s dearest hope and desire.

“That’s the spirit. Everyone should have a dream. Even a pathetically unrealistic one.”

He was right. Even without Scott’s asthma making it ten times harder for him than anyone else, Scott had about as much physical prowess as a drunk gerbil with a peg leg stranded on a tightrope--Stiles' words, of course.

Scott asked out of as much morbid curiosity as much to distract Stiles from punching anymore realism in his lacrosse ambitions.

“Just out of curiosity, which half of the body are we looking for?”

Stiles stopped for a moment, the realization dimming his smile just a bit.

“Huh. I didn’t even think about that.”

He continued on after pocketing his flashlight, the moonlight bright enough that it rendered it unnecessary.

Scott asked, a tiny bit gleeful at pointing out Stiles’ impulsivity,

“And what if whatever killed the girl is still out here?”

 _Whatever_ , not _whoever_. Because this was still Beacon Hills, and even if this was the only exciting thing to happen here in the last hundred years, there was an inevitably boring explanation waiting to happen.

Stiles’ face turned from grin to grim.

“Also something I didn’t think about.”

His pace, however, didn’t falter one step.

“Comforting to know you’ve planned this out with your usual attention to detail.”

They climbed up another hill, autumn detritus thick on the forest paths of the _Beacon Hill Reserve_ —a labyrinth of thick trees that spanned more than half of Beacon County. As a fleet of clouds crossed the moon, the shadows lengthened, and Stiles took out the silvery flashlight, again.

Scott pulled himself forward on a tree trunk, his lungs bordering on squeaking as he shook his inhaler before taking a hit.

“Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight?”

Stiles just shot him a look, emphasizing that _pathetically unrealistic_ lacrosse ambition by Scott’s inability to crest a short hill.When they did crest it, however—

Stiles threw himself violently to the ground, and Scott copied him when he saw the line of sentries, armed with flashlights and dogs as they scoured the many shadows of the woods. Stiles had the good sense to turn off his own flashlight, his eyes bright enough to make up for it.

The ominous barking from the dogs echoed, and Scott pulled up the hood of his faded red jacket when a chill snaked down his spine that had nothing to do with the heaviness of the fog that was increasing towards a drizzle.

Stiles was practically humming with energy, and he shot forward without warning.

“Come on!”

“Stiles!”

Scott shook his inhaler and took another hit.

Stiles darted between the trees, quickly losing Scott.

“Stiles!” Scott hissed as loudly as he dared, glancing back at the line of troopers just beyond the veil of that mist.

Stiles realized how far back he’d left Scott only when he no longer heard his friend’s raspy breathing, and he looked back.

He spun back around quickly when vicious barking entirely too close—and fell back on his ass, scrambling to get back.

“Stay right there!”

The command was secondary to the German Shepherd’s teeth, which were coming entirely too close to Stiles before it was yanked back on it’s leash.

Scott had caught back up, finally—perfect timing. He threw himself up behind a tree, just a few feet away.

“Hold on, hold on.”

Someone heaved a weary sigh from behind the trooper, stepping forward with a look of resignation. “This little delinquent belongs to me.”

Stiles didn’t have to see his face to know who it was—a good thing, because the state trooper had narrowed a beam of blinding light in his direction, as if concerned Stiles would suddenly try to make a break for it.

In an hight voice Stiles asked,

“Hi, dad, how’re you doing?”

“Do you listen in to all my phone calls?” He put his hands on his hips, but it was clear there was no actual anger in him. Not because the situation didn’t warrant it, simply because if the Sheriff got mad every time Stiles engaged in shenanigans, he’d have no time for anything else.

The evidence of the time and effort the Sheriff had spent in the woods was clear by the damp hair that clung to his forehead—the mist in the woods was unusually thick, tonight.

Stiles managed to finally climb to his feet, though he kept an eye on the growling search dog.

“No.” He snorted. Then quickly amended, “Not the boring ones.”

The Sherriff didn’t point out that Stiles would have to listen to those, too, in order to determine what was boring or not. He simply nodded his head, then began scanning the forest.

“Now, where are your usual partners in crime?”

“Who, Scott, Etta? Sc-Scott’s home! Said he each wanted to get a good night’s sleep for school tomorrow.”

Stiles deserved an Emmy for the amount of scoffing disdain in his words—the same scoffing he’d done earlier when he’d successfully convinced Scott just how stupid it was to be so irritatingly practical. Then he added, in a far less convincing tone of voice,

“It’s just me. In the woods. Alone.”

The Sherriff raised an eyebrow.

“And Etta?”

“Etta’s working.” Stiles said quickly, very quickly. It seemed his allotted portion of talent when it came to lying had been depleted for the evening.

The sheriff turned his own flashlight on the woods before Stiles had even finished.

“Scott? Etta? You out there?”

Scott stiffened against the tree as he saw the beam of light waft out among the trees, and he held his breath—aching lungs burning with the effort.

There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and the Sherriff finally lowered the light. He tried calling out Scott and Etta’s names a few more times—concern warring with the authoritativeness, and the thunder rumbled again, as if it were calling Scott, too.

The sheriff turned back to Stiles, still clearly suspicious.

“Well young man, I’m gonna walk you back to your car.” He gripped Stiles by the back of his jacket, ignoring how he was half dragging the gangly high schooler.

“And you and I are gonna have a conversation about a little something called _invasion of privacy_.”

Stiles voiced his protests strategically loud—giving Scott a clear picture of exactly where they were in the forest so he could avoid them, but Scott didn’t feel particularly grateful.

He heaved an irritated sigh, half-wishing he’d simply stepped out from behind the tree as thunder rolled across the sky yet again. If he’d let the sheriff take him, at least he’d have been able to make his way through the woods with a light. With each step, the woods seemed thicker, darker, cloaked in more mist and shadow than ever before—the full moon was hidden behind a cover of dark clouds, now, aside from the occasional ray of light that was still too dim to be really helpful.

He paused at a fork in the narrow trail, the crickets chirping lazily.

He was lost, he realized, with little surprise. But his minor worry over that evaporated when he heard a rustling from among the mist-ringed trees.

He froze, his breathing growing raspy, again. He took out his inhaler again, shaking it violently as he mentally noted how he’d have to work a few more hours this week for a new one.

He went completely still, inhaler halfway to his mouth, when he realized that it was absolutely silent. No thunder…no crickets.

There was something out here.

Just as that realization hit him, the deer sprung from the woods.

Deer as in plural, as in multiple, as in a _freaking-herd-racing-towards-him-oh-my-god-he-was-gonna-die-DEER_.

Scott fell to the ground, his inhaler thrown wide. He threw his arms up around his head, watching as hoof after hoof came just centimeters from tearing open his face.

A stag staggered to the ground an arm’s-length away, clearly stunned. It’s pupils were blown wide, terror making it stand back up and continue stampeding.

As swiftly as it had begun, it ended. Scott lay on the ground for another heartbeat, breathing hard and not quite sure it was over.

Then he realized how he was sopping wet. The storm had broken, and rain was pelting down on him.

He stood up and managed to brush himself off. His breathing was tight again, and he reached for his inhaler—right. He groaned dramatically, but quietly.

Scott got his phone out, and used the light to start looking for his inhaler. No service on it, of course, but it’s not like he could call anyone—he barely knew where he was, but it wasn’t as if he needed help. That his life had just flashed before his eyes would probably be the most exciting thing that would ever happen to him, here.

God, it was _black_ out here.

He continued looking, even though his fingers had gone numb and he was shaking with the freezing rain. He could not go home without that inhaler, it was his only one right now since he hadn’t told his mom how fast he’d really used the last—

Pale skin. Glazed eyes. Bloody flecks.

Scott swiveled on his heel as he realized just what he was seeing in the leaves.

Her body was pale, naked from the chest up. Which, as he double checked, she was just that. _The chest up_. Where the rest of her body should have been, a bloody mass that bugs were already crawling over, crawling into the lumpy mass of bloody tissue—

He was going to throw up. He shouted in shock, reeling back as fast as his feet could take him.

Then there was nothing beneath his feet, and Scott was falling head over heels down a steep ravine.

Scott shook the leaves from his hair once he’d landed, the realization of it filtering through the fading horror.

_He’d found the body._

Oh, he was going to _kill_ Stiles.

He scrambled to his feet, and began to make his way up the hill…

Scott went still, just as he had when he realized the crickets had gone silent.

He hadn’t heard anything. But that was just it….even the rain had stopped, the thunder, the echoing hoofbeats of the herd.

The herd.

Scott’s veins went cold as his blood turned to ice.

Just what _had_ the herd been running from?

Thats when he heard the growling. Low, coming from far off in the woods but still loud enough to indicate just how _big_ the animal was.

Scott couldn’t help himself from turning his head…and the horror he’d felt when he saw the body was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared with what he felt when he saw the beast attached to the two, cold, glowing eyes.

Practically hairless, hunched over dexterous fingers that knotted themselves in the forest rot, a leathery grey color that blended seamlessly into the landscape.

And it was looking at him.

Scott didn’t have time to yell, to scream, or to run before it was on him.

He tried to crawl out from under the dripping maw of yellowing teeth, scrambling for a root, a branch, something stronger than the fresh earth that yielded easily under his fingers as the monster dragged him back toward it.

Scott found his voice, finally, when there was a sharp pain in his side. The sound of ripping almost far away, before he realized it was _HIM_ , it was _HIS SKIN_ that was being ripped—

His foot found something firm to kick against, and the monster’s grip slackened.

Scott was on his feet in seconds, his lungs protesting as he pushed his way through the dripping forest, through the smothering black, putting as much distance between him and that, that _thing_ as possible.

He didn’t realize he’d pushed his way onto a road until his sneakers were squeaking against the wet asphalt and the blinding headlights were coming at him.

The car blared it’s horn—acting on fast reflexes when it swerved around him, though coming close enough that Scott could feel the car mirror graze his shoulder.

It didn’t stop, but Scott didn’t really care.

The pain on his ribs was an ache, a burning.

On the road, without the trees blocking out half the light, the moonlight was bright. A lonely howl sounded over the treetops just as the clouds peeled away from the full moon.

He pulled up his tattered red sweater, heart hammering, already knowing what he would find.

There, in two bloody crescents, was a bite.


	2. First Day of School

The sun was out the next day, bright enough to suggest that the storm last night, that everything that had happened last night, had been nothing but a dream.  
But the soreness in Scott’s side, and the bite mark so deep that he could see the crisp indent of each individual tooth, argued just how real it had all been.   
He was quick not to linger on it, and tried to remain focused on the tryouts. Biking to school was easier than expected—he’d lost his inhaler, but his chest didn’t feel tight at all. He pulled into the parking lot and began to lock up his bike.  
A silvery Porsche drove into the lot right behind him, and Scott didn’t have to look to know the name on the license plate.   
JCKSN37.   
Scott was just finishing locking up his bike, which was neither silvery nor branded with a vanity plate, when the owner of the Porsche opened his door, effectively whacking Scott’s very sore, and mostly still bloody side.   
“Dude.” JCKSN37 stepped out of the car, brilliant blue eyes alive with fire. “Watch the paint job.”  
Either if he said it just to be a jerk, or because Jackson Whitmore was genuinely oblivious to the fact that he had been the one to open the door on Scott, could be decided on a coin toss. The only thing big enough to match Jackson’s ego was the empty space between his big head where his brain should have been.   
“Jackson!”  
Jackson turned when he heard his favorite word. And when Scott saw the posse waiting for the star lacrosse player, it was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy…more than a little like an outsider in his own skin, in his own school. Jackson cocked his head at Scott, as if he could see that much, before turning away, a brilliant grin splitting his handsome face.   
Scott finished up locking his bike and made his way to the front of the school—following the sounds of bickering to the faces of his two favorite people.   
“You actually went out into the woods to find the body?! I thought you were joking!”  
“See, this is why you don’t get invited to this stuff—the only reason I stopped by last night was because I needed a coffee, and your gas station was on the way!”  
“Whatever. And I do get invited to this stuff, because you both need a voice of reason seeing as how common sense decided to permanently take a vacation!”  
Etta and Stiles rolled their eyes at each other in synchronization; a feat of freakiness they’d achieved in third grade that still creeped Scott out.   
“Say it a little louder, I’m not sure the whole county heard you.”  
Etta poked the target on Stiles’ t-shirt for emphasis with each word, her scowl deepening.   
“You’re. An. Idiot.”  
“Scott went, too! Don’t act like you’re above all this!” Stiles scoffed, stepping away and rubbing his chest.  
Etta crossed her arms and grumbled something unflattering.  
Stiles opened his mouth to say something else, but then he stopped as he saw Scott just standing there, waiting for them to finish.   
“Hey, buddy, glad you’re still alive!”  
Etta blinked, as if only just seeing Scott. Then she whirled on Stiles again, her dark hair tied back in a high ponytail whipping through the hair. She hissed,  
“No thanks to you. You left him in the woods.”   
Stiles made a face at her, but Etta had moved on.  
“You got bit.” It was as much a question of concern as an accusation.   
“Yeah, it really hurt, too.  
“Okay, okay, let’s see this thing.” Stiles rubbed his hands together, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.   
Scott shot Etta an apologetic look, pleading off her trademark ‘I told you so.’  
The blood had already begun to seep through the bandage—a bandage that stretched from his hip to his thigh, something Scott was sure they only had because his mom was a nurse.   
“Oh!” Stiles immediately tried to touch it, eyes wide. Scott flinched away with a warning sound—it was still tender.   
“It was too dark to see, but I’m pretty sure it was a wolf that bit me.”  
They moved towards the school doors, Stiles’ and Scott’s lacrosse staffs tucked in their backpacks.  
“No, not a chance.” Stiles said, and Etta nodded in agreement.  
“I heard a wolf howling.” Scott insisted.   
Stiles was practically smirking, high on the drug of his own cleverness.  
“No, you didn’t!”  
“What do you mean ‘no you didn’t,’ you don’t even know what I heard.”  
“California doesn’t have wolves.”  
There was a finality to Stiles’ words; Scott glanced across him to Etta, who shrugged, and nodded in painful agreement.  
“They were run out a long, long time ago. Beacon Hills is just too urban for them, anyhow.” She explained.  
“Like sixty years ago.”   
Stiles couldn’t help one-upping her. Scott’s head was reeling, and he stopped.  
“Really?”  
“Yes, really. There are no wolves in California.”  
Scott shook his head slightly; he was sure, so sure about what he had heard. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He trusted Etta and Stiles, and on the rare occasion that they actually agreed on something, there was no arguing with them.   
“Well, if you’re not gonna believe me about the wolf, then you’re definitely not gonna believe me when I tell you I found the body.”  
Stiles started violently—his grin positively macabre. Etta groaned, and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers, muttering something about poor life choices and the outcomes of early-childhood percussions .   
Scott found he was more in agreement with Etta’s reaction.  
“Are you kidding me?”  
Etta whacked Stiles with the back of her hand—he sounded entirely too excited, like it was Christmas, but he ignored her.   
“I wish, i’m gonna have nightmares for weeks.”  
He deliberately avoided looking at Etta, knowing her expression would all too well be wearing the dreaded, obnoxious ‘I told you so’ scowl. And that he well deserved it.  
“That is freakin’ awesome. I mean this is gonna be the best thing that happened to this town since—since the birth of Lydia Martin. Hey, Lydia! You look… like you’re gonna ignore me.”  
A poignant, extravagantly dressed figure bearing impeccable makeup and posture strolled past. She acted for all the world as if she hadn’t heard a thing; a woman born in the steel-skin meant for catwalks and red carpets.  
She beamed at Etta, waving two fingers without stopping her gait. Etta smiled back, and was already smirking when Stiles turned to shoot a jealous glare.  
“You’re the cause of this, y’know?” He turned on Scott. Amused, used to it, and utterly untroubled, Scott humored him. Etta steered them both by a finger on their backs toward the doors.  
“Dragging me down to your nerd depths. I’m a nerd by association. I’m scarlet-nerded by you.”  
“You are a nerd.” Etta clarified.   
Stiles rolled his eyes, but didn’t debate it.  
“Brat.”  
“You’re still a nerd.” She sang softly, and peeled away from them as they crossed the threshold.  
“Brat!”  
Stiles called after her. He got several strange looks for it, and cleared his throat self-consciously, and followed Scott to their first period.

First period was English with Mr. Curtis for Scott and Stiles. The watery, grayish sunlight was about as bright as his disposition when Mr. Curtis began to speak,  
“As you all know, there was indeed a body found in the woods last night.”  
Scott exchanged a glance with Stiles, unable to hide the smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. Stiles winked in return.   
Mr. Curtis sighed as the morbid excitement that filled the room.  
“Now, I’m sure your eager little minds are coming up with various macabre scenarios as to how it happened but I’ve been told that the police have a suspect in custody.”  
Scott looked at Stiles, again, confused. He hadn’t said anything…?   
Stiles just shrugged, though, apparently the information news to him, as well.  
“Which means your undivided   
attention can be given to the syllabus outlining the semester on your desks. Read it now. And by read I don’t mean skim.”  
Resignation murmured through the class as everyone flipped through the pages, exercising a very loose definition of the word read, when Scott flinched at the sound of a cell phone so loud it should have been turned up all the way and been jammed halfway down his ear canal.   
He looked up, stunned when no one else was reacting to it. Not even Mr. Curtis. He glanced around, waiting for someone to take it out of their bag, or at least subtly reach down and silent it. He was still looking around when he noticed something out the window, on one of the benches outside.  
Someone. With a cell phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear.   
“Mom, I think three calls on my first day is a little overdoing it.”  
Again, no one else seemed to notice anything. Scott saw the girl’s mouth move with the words: it really was HER he was hearing.   
A tinny buzz echoed over the phone in response, and while he couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, it was clearly words.  
“Okay, okay, I’ve gotta go—love ya.”  
She hang up quickly as the principal strolled up.  
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He said pleasantly, engaging her in conversation as they walked into the school. Conversation Scott wasn’t really listening to so much as he was stunned by the fact that he was listening to it. Even when they were out of his line of sight, he heard their heels on the tiles of the school’s entrance, the squeak of the door handles turning.   
“Well, hopefully Beacon Hills will be your last stop for awhile.”  
Scott was staring through the walls, as if he could see the owners of those voices, so he was the first to see the classroom door open.  
Tall, slim, with dark hair and guarded eyes. She barely looked up, barely made an attempt at a smile when the principal introduced her—as if she’d already been in this situation before, too many times to try.   
“Class, this is Allison Argent. Please do your best to make her feel welcome.”  
She barely waited for him to finish before she headed for the last empty seat in the room.   
The one behind him.   
Hesitantly, he picked up his pen, and held it out to her.   
She stared at him, confused, and Scott wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake, somehow. But then she smiled, and it was pure sunshine in that face.   
“Thanks.”  
She blinked, curious, but she didn’t say anything else as she took it.  
Scott couldn’t help feeling as though he’d accomplished something when he turned around, ducking his head to mask his grin that sat with him the rest of the class. 

Stiles’s, Scott’s, and Etta’s lockers were carefully arranged to be in that exact order for the specific situation Scott found himself in now.   
Stiles and Etta were bickering about the body, despite the teachers’ unanimous warnings to stay on task for the day and ignore the only exciting thing to happen to Beacon Hills since…well, since Beacon Hills had become Beacon Hills.  
But Scott didn’t hear it, despite this strange new fluke that meant he could hear conversations through walls, over a hundred feet away. He shoved the information into the back his head, into the same place that insisted it was a wolf he’d seen last night.   
And that was easy to do when Allison Argent caught him staring at her-and grinned back. She was distracted by Lydia Martin—and then by Lydia Martin’s boyfriend, the world-class jerk with the impeccable paint-job on his Porsche.   
A girl from their homeroom—her name starting with a G, Gabrielle or Gabe, something like that, walked past and stalled enough to ask Etta,  
“Can anyone tell me how ‘new girl’ is here all of five minutes, and she’s already hanging out with Lydia’s clique?”  
“Because she’s hot.” Stiles was quick to answer. He shrugged, and justified—  
“Beautiful people herd together.”  
His stared down the hall—not at Allison, but the preppy girl next to her— in a look that could only be described as wistful and longing. G-girl and Stiles began to argue about what exactly designated someone to be called ‘hot,’ but Scott ignored them, and used his new hearing trick to focus in on Allison Argent’s conversation.  
He heard enough—a party, Allison’s polite refusal that, at least to his ears, sounded like an excuse. Not that he could blame her. He also heard enough of Jackson’s bragging about Lacrosse to make the staff tucked through a hole in his backpack feel that much heavier.   
He was lost in thought—torn between Lacrosse anxiety and the fact that Allison had sneaked not one, but two glances at him during their conversation. He didn’t realize that Jackson Whitmore was walking past them until Etta was talking to him.   
Stiles and G-girl stopped bickering, mouth’s practically wagging open.  
Their exchange was quick, and Etta was polite. Something about a car, Scott didn’t really listen to the specifics.  
Third grade was when their trio was forged. Etta’s aunts had been close enough friends with Scott’s mom that Etta had spent a fair amount of time at his house even before that, to the point that now they were in high school, Scott felt an almost brotherly obligation. So maybe it was that protective instinct that made his blood suddenly surge with the impulse to rip Jackson Whitmore’s eyes out when he saw the star lacrosse player checking her out when she turned back to her locker.   
“Etta’s only in tangent to the clique. Part of it, but not really.”  
Stiles stage-whispered to G-girl as she stalked away with a shake of her head. Etta just rolled her eyes and shrugged, as if it couldn’t be helped.  
“He lets me play around with his cars.” She explained when she saw Scott’s expression. She wrinkled her nose.  
“Jerk of a guy, but I got to soup up his Porsche’s engine. He wouldn’t let me actually drive it, of course, but he told me he got it up to 210 on the highway.”  
Her grin was positively devious, so much so that Scott had to laugh. Stiles was shaking his head, as if he’d never seen her before.  
“Okay, but why does Jackson Whitmore talk to you and not us?”  
Etta cocked a hip, and raised an eyebrow. Her smirk held a dozen implications.  
“I like cars. I fix cars. He’s got a nice car. Very nice, now that i’ve been in it.”  
Stiles was still waiting for a real answer, his eyes starting to bug out. Etta’s smirk, if even possible, widened. She quoted Stiles’ earlier statement in a hoarse imitation of his voice.  
“Also, I’m ‘hot.’”  
“Now there’s a verifiable reason. Wait. Do you—does he think you—?”  
“I don’t know, Stiles?”  
Etta groaned, her patience thoroughly worn. Stiles whumped against the locker next to her when she turned around, and she jumped—shooting him a glare, and cringing at the expression he held. If anything, it looked as if he were trying for an evil smile—only it just resulted in a face vaguely reminiscent of the Grinch’s curly smirk.  
Scott twirled his Lacrosse pole around in his hands, wondering if he was just fooling himself about Allison and those looks. Even if they had been plural.  
Etta shot him a sympathetic expression, as if she could read his thoughts. That soft face became a grimace the more Stiles talked.  
“If Jackson thinks you’re hot....” he drifted off, and spread his hands as if that said it all. Etta raised an eyebrow, afraid to ask. Scott was terrified.  
“Maybe you could expedite my five year plan…?”  
Etta snorted, and shook her head. Scott felt a tightness in his chest ease. Jackson was slime incarnate. Etta didn’t deserve that.  
“Oh, no. You’re on your own with that.”  
Still chuckling, she slammed the locker shut and walked away, shaking her head as Stiles called after her, bribing her with everything from jail bouncing to cake—in that order.  
When she turned the corner, Stiles sighed at Scott.   
He glanced at the time, and grimaced.  
“You ready for this?”  
Scott wanted to say something in the affirmative, but his mouth was too dry for him to speak.   
Stiles clapped him on the shoulder.   
“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll help carry you off the field.”  
And on that optimistic note, Scott embarked on the most important tryouts of his life.

Etta took a binder of homework with her to the chilled bench beside the field that was crawling with prospective lacrosse players. It was also filled with those playing another sort of game: those that wanted to check any good said-lacrosse-players out like a library book to either elevate their own status or just find someone to make out with. Etta was decidedly neither (at least, mostly neither: Lahey was trying out again, and he was a dream) when she sat on the bench—watching her two idiots enter the killing field. Stiles was gesturing sporadically, predictably being a spaz. Scott was looking calm but intense.   
She knew that would change when coach started throwing things at him.   
“My boyfriend finally has a suitable car, thanks to you.”  
Etta couldn’t help but smile at the preppy tone of the petite girl that flounced along the benches. The girl Scott hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of tagged behind her, looking reluctant and embarrassed to be here.  
“Etta, Allison—my new best friend.”  
“It’s because of the wardrobe, isn’t it?”  
Etta smiled at the brunette, who smiled slowly back at her and then laughed, and nodded. Etta glanced back at Lydia, who sat with her back straight, chin up, like she was on a throne instead of bird excrement-soiled bleachers.   
“My friend Scott is trying out,” Etta gestured with her chin, pleased to see that Allison’s eyes darted immediately to the field with the same interest that Scott had shown her. She ducked her head and hid a smile.  
“We’re here to watch Jackson.” Lydia frowned, smoothing her skirt. “Also, that one’s wrong. I think.”  
She added the last part hurriedly, after poking one of Etta’s calculus problems. Etta raised an eyebrow, but refrained from saying anything.  
Stiles had always raved about how Lydia Martin was a genius—Etta wondered how true that actually was.  
Lydia and her had become fast friends over the summer, once Lydia realized that Etta preferred Jackson’s car to Jackson. Etta had found that Lydia alone was a very different person from public Lydia, and she still wasn’t sure which was the real Lydia.  
“Oh, no.”  
She muttered when she saw Coach approaching Scott….and heave the big net-stick-thingy at him. She’d been dragged to enough of these stupid games to know what that meant.   
“Try not to take any to the face.”  
Coach called over his shoulder as Scott made his way to the goal.  
Etta barely resisted the urge to drop her face onto her homework, which Lydia was getting more and more invested in.   
“Is that your friend?” Allison asked, big brown eyes tracking Scott.   
“I’m not sure who he is.” Lydia tilted her head. She ignored Etta’s baleful stare—Lydia knew exactly who Scott (and Stiles, who was still on the bench) was, and had since fourth grade. Lydia wrinkled her nose at Allison.  
“Why?”  
The slightly disgusted emphasis to the single syllable made Allison’s shoulders slump just a little.   
“No reason.”  
Oh, she was good. Whether Lydia knew it or not. She had just protected Allison from a potential interest that could endanger her own burgeoning popularity…which, to Lydia, would have been a godlike kindness.   
To Etta, it was simply annoying.   
She was half-tempted to say something, but then she saw Scott writhing in between the goal-posts, holding his head. Some kind of get-your-head-in-the-game-focus-practice….?  
“Oooh!”  
Etta and Stiles’ sympathetic groans of pain when Scott took a ball to the face were of the same pitch and length. Scott fell flat on his ass.   
He shot an anxious look at the bleachers. Not at her, Etta knew.   
At the brunette who was frowning at Lydia—Lydia and her snorting giggles.  
To be fair, if it hadn’t been Scott, it might have been funny.   
Etta braced herself as the second-up heaved his stick back.  
She wasn’t prepared to Scott to catch it, though. Or the next one. Or the next.  
When had he been practicing? Etta wondered with a frown.  
“He seems good.” Allison noted after the dozenth impressive catch. Lydia studied Scott in stunned confusion, and simply nodded in agreement.   
“Very good.”  
Etta smirked.  
Then Jackson cut the line.  
Every edge of his body limned with aggression, every muscle corded and built. Jackson wasn’t just an impressive lacrosse player, he WAS Beacon Hills High School lacrosse.   
Etta winced as his cleats kicked up dirt, and Jackson hurdled towards the net, throwing the ball with such sheer force, at such professional speed, and in such a high arch that it would be impossible for anyone, let alone Scott, to catch.  
Scott caught it.   
And everyone on the stands, even the uneducated like Allison, recognized the unparalleled skill it took, and cheered. Even Lydia cheered, even if it had been while shooting Jackson a saucy glare. Etta, however, was confused.   
Just where had THAT come from?


End file.
